


Flicker and Fade

by TeeEye82



Category: Destiny (Video Game)
Genre: Expect death., Mostly death though., Possibly sad.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:03:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4915243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeeEye82/pseuds/TeeEye82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stories on unfortunate or bizarre events surrounding Guardians. Some may be continued as full length works if I find it in me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When You Promise Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guardian finds herself trapped in Crota's realm with no apparent way out other than to join her fallen commrades. As a last resort, her Ghost suggests something practically unheard of.

The area was eerily silent, save the ever hissing hum of the stale air over the malevolent looking structures, brought in through the swirling greens and blues of the dark skies that surrounded the suspended surfaces. A lone figure pressed themselves against a wall, hidden by its angle and height. Their mask revealed no emotion beneath, but their quivering hands that gripped tightly around a depleted gun betrayed the underlying fear.

"I'm sorry," an unimaginably average male voice whispered dully, though it wasn't from the figure. Their head turned towards the voice, and the gun was lowered ever so slightly.

"What for?" Her voice could have almost been considered gruff, though didn't lack in that feminine delicacy all of her kind were programmed with. Being apparently Exo, if the slight distortion didn't give it away then the metal beneath various open regions of her armour did.

"I encouraged our progression thus far. If it weren't for me-"

"We'd still be here, though maybe with the tables turned." There was a moment of silence before she decided to continue. "Guardians are here to defend the Light. It was bound to happen eventually. And if not us then another poor group that didn't realise what they were getting into." She sounded almost sad, if not for the definite tremor of humility that laced her words. Because the truth was, they had come into this infernal place entirely ill-equipped, boasting of the grand adventure that awaited and how many of their friends they would impress with the story they'd no doubt tell in profound exaggeration. And for what?

The steady, searching thuds of their current adversary knocked in the distance, and the Exo let her helmet rest against their thin refuge. It was only a matter of time now before the Swordbearer found them, and then the rest would be history.

They were out of ammunition. Their fireteam had been entirely wiped out. The vigor they had begun the quest with was crushed and buried under miles of hopelessness. And to top it all off the last surviving Guardian was a Bladedancer. Of all the classes available, she was the one that could not hold its own in close-quarters against an opponent that didn't go down in at least three strikes and could take it out in two. If only she had accepted the proposed gift from Xur all those moons ago, instead of insisting it be given to someone that might need it more. Curse her humble code, curse it straight to the Dark.

She almost blew their cover when there came a sudden sharp clang of whatever the Hive Knights were covered in and whatever the surrounding material was made of being struck together. The Swordbearer snarled in its native gurgling tongue and swiped at the floating Ghost of one of her fallen comrades, unable to raise its Guardian ever again due to the wicked evil of the onlooking Oversoul, the gargantuan representation of their enemies' commanding force's life suppressing almost all Light. All except the meeger amount living Guardians produced when in a state of extreme heroism.

She closed her optics in mourning behind the yellow lights of her helmet, knowing that for a while yet her team would still be able to observe the failed mission, would be forced to watch as she spent her last minutes hiding cowardly behind a piece of wall on a pillar not even fifteen feet above the Swordbearer's grotesque head. Until what little Light that remained within their Ghosts was devoured entirely.

Her thoughts were suddenly pulled away from that grim topic at the waveringly determined voice of her own Little Light.

"What if we attempted contact with it?" She could almost see his little geometric frame swirl languidly around his optic, searching for approval of the wild idea. He was always good at coming up with those, she mused detachedly, almost not registering exactly what he'd suggested. When she finally did, though, she about cried out in bemusement.

"What if," the Ghost began again, picking his words a little more carefully this time. "What if we tried to speak with it? No one has ever done that before. It's always been a process of run in and shoot to kill. There's never been anything civil exchanged, or at least it's never been documented." The last bit was added as a soft afterthought, almost a disclaimer. The Exo held back the choking that threatened to slur her response.

"Are you saying we should beg for our lives? That's outrageous; how do we know it even understands our language?" It was apparent the approval the Ghost had been seeking earlier was not going to be found here.

"We don't," he admitted bitterly, "but to be perfectly honest it's our last hope for any form of reprieve. Please." His voice softened, and the request was left at that single word.

The two of them remained in a stiff silence as the Exo considered and the Ghost waited. Eventually, she released a deep exvent, and turned her gaze down to peer at the lumbering creature that was now back to combing the areas low to the ground, possibly searching for some sort of clue as to where she could be hiding. At least they didn't have to worry about any extraordinary intelligence, though then again that very same simpleness could very well be their final undoing.

Her shoulders suddenly relaxed, and her head tipped forward in resignation, gun coming to rest in her lap before disappearing into her subspace entirely.

"Fine," she relented tersely, and rose to her feet, taking the upcoming risk further in an almost childlike sense of defiance by jumping down to the ground. This short movement was noticed immediately by the elite Knight, and it whirled from its place across the courtyard and began stomping towards her aggressively, making an impressive racket, roaring and seething and likely promising all sorts of unholy things. On reflex, the Guardian put her hands in the air, the typical symbol for "Unarmed". This was immediately met by verbal assault not only from the Hive being, but also her Ghost.

"No, no! To them that's a form of threat from smaller forces towards larger ones; the thrall use it almost religiously. It'll think you're mocking its size." She lowered her arms then and peered almost offendedly at the Swordbearer still advancing, resisting the urge to roll her optics when it swung and flipped the large blade in its oversized claws in some display of superior armaments. And while that was true enough, it was still disgustingly cocky.

Immediately, something was displayed on the Exo's HUD. A simple pose, generated to look like her for imitating purposes.

"We believe this is a submissive acknowledgement."

"Believe?" Suspicion was thick with this one. As well as mild regret for the earlier choice to be on the ground level, as the Swordbearer was only a few moments away at this point.

"Do we really want to argue about legitimacy right now?"

Defeated once more, the Exo pulled her palms to her chest and crouched slightly, dipping her head a little and rocking forwards on her toes. The reaction was immediate, and almost surreal, as the charging giant halted its stride not even two steps before them.

Sword still gripped firmly between clunky digits, the Swordbearer stopped all racket, standing a little taller and tilting its head in an almost curious fashion. Perhaps it was as disbelieving as she was, the Guardian mused in awe, and shifted to match the next display that was labeled aptly as "Probably Begging?" Her wrists pressed together and were raised above her hood, fingers splayed out to the Oversoul and head dipping further still.

The Swordbearer seemed to want to take a step back, and actually flitted its gaze towards the nearby Ghosts that hung like mocking reminders that even if this worked, they'd still be dead. The Exo felt an exhilarating buzz of excitement then, realising that they were probably the first to ever have such a conversation with their enemy.

This could revolutionise the way they handled each other!

Images of fierce and bloody battles were replaced with militant discussions that consisted of improvised sign language. Meetings and councils might be held, and even agreements made! But this was all dashed by the brutal reminder that the reason none of these things had ever come to fruition before was undoubtedly because of the nature of Darkness and Light themselves.

No matter what, one force would always fight to drown out the other. It was part of their balance.

But that was neither here nor there, as the Exo got down onto her knees and separated her hands to face upwards, as if offering something to the Swordbearer. Her face still looked to the feet of her assailant, and the Ghost was remaining suffocatingly silent throughout the process. Here she was, attempting to get away with her Light still intact, performing a series of hardly understood motions witnessed in other Hivekind, and still alive?

The Swordbearer seemed to take on an entirely different disposition, discarding the angry offensive and becoming almost serene. It, too, went to a knee, and rested the tip of the massive weapon it bore on the ground, one claw circled properly around the handle while the other draped over the bent leg. Its rippling veins of molten orange flicked a sharp contrast of light over the sudden darkened green-blue of their surroundings, and the Exo closed her optics and resisted the urge to recede further away.

Something strange and soft sounded from the hovering beast, a garbled, almost wet utterance.

“What is it saying?” she whispered as softly as she could, and her Ghost replied in kind.

“I think it’s asking if you wish for it to accept.” He didn’t seem entirely convinced on that rough translation, though. Oh well, it was better than nothing.

“How do I tell it yes?” Thankfully the Hive creature had become uncharacteristically patient, like it was waiting for her to mull over a heavy consideration. It occurred to her that there may be an undefinable condition in the agreement they were attempting to come to. Perhaps they were not even requesting what they thought they were? But she kept those fears to herself in the last remaining glimmer of freedom, figuring that in the end this either succeeded or it didn't, and it was better than rolling over and giving up.

"Look it in the face. When it reaches out to you do not shy away. No matter what." The Ghost's voice couldn't exactly be pegged as stern as much as pleading, and the Exo lifted her optics to meet the burnt gaze of the Swordbearer in acknowledgement of her companion's direction. And in that moment, it wouldn't have mattered if she had wanted to shrink from the decrepit creature, for she was suddenly taking it in.

Every detail, every curve. Every crack and scratch and pock in its armour. Everything down to where the decaying metal ended and the protruding bones began. She drank it in, was consumed by it, overwhelmed by the weight of its regality and the Darkness that exuded from every crevice this creature contained.

He extended the arm that had previously been resting between them, claws unfurling above her head and coming down to surround her upper body. The acrid smell of copper and dirt filled her sensors, and she almost crumbled beneath the pressure of the Darkness. Her Light burned, writhed, screamed for her to get out of there, and all the while she remained transfixed by the enormous, fire-filled Knight.

Her Ghost was trying to tell her something, panicking, things weren't panning out as he had hoped. And then suddenly he was out in the open, floating right in front of her face and extended every which way in a mix of horror and something unseen by her optics. His frame shuddered and his central orb rolled about as he screamed and screamed. But his voice was so faint now, the Exo wasn't sure she could even understand what the problem was.

And then he went dark.

The Guardian felt like she should have shrieked. Like she should have howled and cried out in agony and grief and anger and the beginnings of true abandonment. But instead of any of that, instead of any heartache or despair, she simply went rigidly still. Her optics remained glued to the Swordbearer, staring through the husk of the reason she was even alive, staring through the memory. The Ghost dropped from the air and the encapsulating claws drew back. The Swordbearer stood, and she stood.

A crackling, dripping voice penetrated her mind then, morphed just enough that she could understand the intent behind the words, but not enough to sound like any language she was familiar with. She recognised it as the voice of her saviour, and bowed her head respectfully as he spoke.

 **Servant,** he drawled out in a guttural sort of hiss. He stood at his full height, weapon resting comfortably on his shoulder while he held one claw suspended above her, palm upwards, his molten frame mingling with the ever-present glow of the Oversoul's gaze. He was about to name her, this she could feel. Once named, she would seek the kneeling grounds of her master and await their summoning. Wait for them forever if needs be, and act as that beacon, that thread that connected them through the dimensions Light and Darkness were bred in.

 **Servant**. She would have held her breath if she had any.

**Of the Dark.**

The Exo knelt again and rested both palms against the ground in confirmation, her armour already showing signs of the stress the Darkness was having on it, and vanished. Left behind, the remaining hovering Ghosts finally flickered out and dropped to the ground, returning the Swordbearer to his determined sentinel of the Bridge.

The area was eerily silent, again, save the ever hissing hum of the stale air over the malevolent looking structures, brought in through the swirling greens and blues of the dark skies that surrounded the suspended surfaces. A long figure stalked back to the overseeing chamber, each dull clanging step echoing about the emptiness until the scene was still and empty again, ready for the next group of Guardians to stumble across his outpost.

Somewhere else, on the outside of an area known simply as the Cosmodrome, among the many skeletons of vehicles and long forgotten carcasses, an Exo appeared, her armour crumbling the last of its way into the Darkness and her optics black in an almost death-like trance. She stumbled backwards and fell against a car's chassis, sliding to the ground and turning her face up to the brilliant blue sky. Once upon a time, she might have been overjoyed by the sight of it, but now it held no extravagant place in her heart.

And there, she allowed the Darkness to pull her into a dormant state, as it drew itself deep within her reserves to hide from any outside source. And there, she rested, waiting for the next time she woke up and her wordless mission to be initiated by the first gullible speck of Light to grace her tarnished soul.


	2. When Spoken To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This Guardian needs something from the Speaker, but can't bring themselves to say. The Speaker has seen this behaviour in many others before. In the end, it's always the same

The crisp rustle of old dead leaves.

The cooling air even as the gentle brilliance of the sun soaked through banners and trees, across walls and over floor and foot and cheek alike.

That particular hum of lazy activity, civilians giggling together over a passing mech, the buzz and whir of various units that stood by patiently.

There were a few birds somewhere nearby, and the breeze swept sheepishly along the frame of a figure that for all the world appeared to be trying to hide. Bright purple optics peered from under a silvery hood, the components that rested beyond their oral plates spinning and tilting as they affixed their gaze towards a large round room. Actually, towards the only occupant of that room.

Within the dome of a study, off to the left and up a small length of stairs, surrounded by glyphs and ancient texts and somewhat of a chemistry lab, a robed form stood arched over a short table. Every now and then, he would turn and whisper softly to his Ghost, who hovered just to his left, always waiting. Always listening.

The figure outside hunched behind the rim of a few boxes, where no one else wandered, and continued their silent scrutiny. About now their own Ghost materialised, and he flicked his single optic from his charge to his charge's focus. Whatever he found in this short observation, it was taxing, and he lowered himself to the hooded figure's helm and let his smooth concern come in the form of mild criticism.

"This is the third time this week," he began. "Don't you think it's getting a little creepy?" Those bright purple optics set themselves on the Ghost. Said floating machine seemed to drift away at this.

Though he got no response.

"The Speaker does more than speak, y'know," the geometric device offered. This earned him a short, tense sigh of agitation.

"I'm only trying to help. I don't understand your increasing need to spy on him; he would welcome your presence just as he would any other Guardian."

Those bright purple optics shifted back towards the ever diligent figurehead within the observatory, though held less uncertainty. More ponderous thought. The Ghost descended slowly to come to a soft pause by the hooded form's wrists before shimmering out of visible existence in a shattered blink of blue light. The Guardian stood then and slowly made their way out from behind the boxes, across the short path littered with musty leaves and cold puddles, over the short bridge that appeared to drop out all the way down, and into the dark shadows of the study.

That uncertainty returned with a vengeance.

In here, the air was a bit cooler, and the Speaker's voice could be heard well with the high ceiling and round walls. He spoke softly, he spoke low, tilting his masked head in for his Ghost to transmit whatever information he was relaying. The candles that surrounded his workplace above offered a warm golden highlight for the deeper shadows around the room. The large machine that sat still and peaceful, taking up the most of the observatory, clicked and hissed to life suddenly while its many rings and latches revolved around a central hologram of the Traveler. The Guardian could just barely make out the tones in the gentle voice.

They'd gotten this far, though, and this reminder had their boots falling softly over the sturdy metal ground. One after the other, they began to ascend the stairs, one hand hovering cautiously along the railing while the other found itself unsurely poised before the bulk of their chestpiece. Their cloak swished against their heels as they stepped, and their optics scanned the upcoming scene frantically.

The Speaker continued his tasks, gloved fingers roaming studiously over papers and inscriptions while his head swayed minutely in confirmation of received information. He would turn always away from his work to speak to the Ghost, never mixing multiple projects at once. He was busy, so busy, never a moment to breathe and stretch. Never time for a pleasure walk or even a short nap. His schedule was strict, and he obeyed it to the letter.

The figure knew this only from their many posts as sentinel they'd taken just outside this observatory.

Boot met the edge of the last stair, a sharp clink of metal on metal, and the hooded Guardian froze in fear. The ever persistent Speaker raised his mask slowly, and turned about with the same ease to address the fellow wielder of Light. The Guardian almost trembled, drawing in with their hands to their chest and shoulders over their elbows.

"Hunter," he began softly, warmly. The one on the steps flinched at the word, though it was minute enough that the Speaker didn't notice.

"Does something trouble you?" He did, however, notice the manner in which the Guardian held themselves, and that was enough.

The visitor only looked away, towards the Traveler, though it was apparent they were not really seeing the dying orb that hung about the Last City. Concerned, the Speaker stepped away from his work, motioning for his own Ghost to remain by the desk, and carefully picked his way closer to the Hunter.

"Whatever plagues your Light, Guardian, I am here to help. Please." His voice was softer yet, warmer still. Only good intentions and courteous tones. His mask was met by the glowing purple of the other's optics, and his gloved hand came to hovering just by the heavy material that protected the shoulder of the combatant.

One of their own hands rose from their chest hopefully, nimble fingers reaching with caution but a burning need for the gentle presence that only just barely made itself known by their head. His moved to meet theirs, and for a moment they stood, Light ebbing and rolling side by side where their forms touched, and the Guardian seemed about ready to finally relax.

Just as soon as the atmosphere had settled, the Hunter disturbed its serenity once more. They pulled away sharply and backed down the first few steps, purple filled with a wild trepidation and the revolving mechanism in the center coming to a clattering halt. The Speaker made as if to follow, but did not chase the obviously frightened Exo.

"You have nothing to fear here, Hunter," he pleaded. "No judgement will befall you. Tell me why you shy away." But he was once more met only with silence, coupled with the laboured whirring of the components behind the frame's oral plates. It was not the sound of attempted speech, only the sound of anxious circuits. The Exo was halfway down, now, and the Speaker was at a loss.

"I cannot help you if you do not tell me what you need." His voice was clipped, sterner, stressed. Though his agitation was not with the Hunter, rather his apparent inability to bring peace to this Guardian in distress, the hooded figure below didn't know any better.

In a flutter of fabrics, tinkling armour, and the soft hum of the moving parts that made up the Exo frame, the Hunter was gone. The white robed man at the top of the stairs was left with the empty observatory and his Ghost, who had up until now remained silent vigil by the desk. This floating voice came to peer over the Speaker's shoulder, down the way the Guardian had fled, and flicked a studious optic towards the masked form he called his charge.

"Should I worry for them," the Speaker ventured almost mournfully, directing himself and his Ghost back to the work he had temporarily abandoned. There was a short breath of silence as the Ghost mulled over its answer, and it let its gaze fall to the way the Speaker rested his hands along the delicate scripts.

"I don't think they'll be coming around again," came the unphased admittance from the hovering device.

"That is unfortunate." But it was what he expected. This wasn't the first time he'd been approached by a Guardian displaying those odd quirks in behaviour, but all of the previous had each been the last sighting of themselves.

And true enough, the Hunter disappeared from the Tower altogether, and their face was one of the many added to the list of nameless lost. If only the Speaker could get them to speak when they appeared, he was sure he could prevent whatever drove them away. Until then he was tasked with the burden of facing each that came with the knowledge that it would be the last time they did.


	3. When Finding Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardian had a habit. Cayde-6 got used to it fast, though not so much the reverse.

The days in the Tower are numbered, but this one presents itself just like any other. Long, brimming with important errands and ruthless missions, sometimes bleeding into the next day, and the day after that, or spending uncountable hours removed from time itself in a dimension of pure mechanical construct, or in the bowels of the darkest reaches of the traversable systems.

This one flows just like any other. Swift, lacking any significant breathers other than those that would fill space with making sure no one has a new task, or returning acquired intel or artifacts to specific recipients. It's the kind of day where it feels like the last, and promises the same experiences in the next, but never seems to appeal to the endurer as repetitive.

At least, it was for those Guardians with the privilege of free roam.

Consistently, standing sentinel around a long table central to the Tower complexes, three figures busy themselves with the formalities exchanged between City, Speaker, Vanguard, Reef, and intelligence crews out scouting locations of interest.

Ikora Rey, Vanguard Warlock, head of the operations of the investigators of the energies available to Light users and main scribe of the happenings of opposing species.

Commander Zavala, Vanguard Titan, chief in executive decisions and direct authority of the three that congregate here, ruthless and cold, a natural leader.

And then Cayde-6, Vanguard Hunter, instated because of a lost bet and a lost friend, head of recon and special intelligence; begrudgingly. He never liked the idea of a desk-job.

All three extremely qualified forces, adequate representatives of what their respective followers wish to see, wish to do, wish to have. Intimidating. Or at least... two of them were.

The third also never wanted to be a leader.

Every morning, before the sun has warmed the shaded courtyard of the Tower, while most are out finishing up the last day's quests or searching for the latest legends, a not unusual form would shimmer into existence with a hiss of expelled energy and a clank of boot against concrete. They would shrug their hood back and unclip their helmet, making steadied strides across the landing zone and down into the Vanguard Operations room. There is no hesitation to their movements, and there is no deviation.

They would pass the Hive-touched woman, Eris Morn, as the poor pained figure would call in a desperate plea for any listener to hear her warnings and heed the dangers. But their focus was absolute, and Eris wasn't even spared a glance.

Next in passing would be Lord Shaxx, head of Crucible operations and mostly silent, in that gruff way of observation. He's well versed in this Guardian's habit, and doesn't call to them. Despite how much he wished to see them in his arenas.

There are civilians that offer praise and excited query, but their words fall short of perception, and are lost in the white noise of the gently humming business of the Tower. None seen to take offense to bring ignored, this Guardian was likely just really busy. What wonderful people they were, always fighting for the better.

The Hunter was quick to push past the next speaker, Ikora Rey, as the stout, smooth skinned woman greeted the foreign class with curiosity. This Guardian would have nothing to do with either Vanguard at opposing ends of the table.

They would come to a stiff halt before the Vanguard of their occupation, wait patiently for recognition from the Exo beneath his hood, and once eye contact was made would offer a single gloved hand clutching something small and unseen until the mech reached out to accept. Every time it was something different, something odd and misshapen. Sometimes colourful, sometimes dirtied, sometimes even smoothed and shined to something reflective. And each time it would leave the Hunter's hand and enter his with the satisfied thump of a bizarre gift.

The first few times they'd done this, Cayde-6 had questioned the action as a joke. But as time went on and the items kept coming, he began to see the habit as something to consider, if not appreciate. To what end did this Guardian pocket useless junk and return it to the Vanguard? What purpose did it serve? What enlightenment did they possess that the trio of the Tower didn't see?

All of these questions were forced to stew and swim, unvoiced. Because whenever Cayde-6 looked up from the item, the Guardian would already be shimmering out. And they would be left in a humbled silence as the Exo Hunter held whatever trinket had been retrieved that time, turning it over between his fingers before pocketing it and returning to his work.

Ikora had no end to her theories on the behaviour, and Zavala fancied that the Guardian was trying to be cute. Cayde-6 was constantly talking about wanting to go outside, and this Hunter was bringing the outside to him.

Whatever the reason, it was a habit all of the residents in the Tower had grown used to, and some might argue that it was more than for the sake of routine. It was for the sake of the oddity of it, or the coordination, maybe even the mystery.

A blue enameled frame lifted his head from the maps beneath his fingertips, optics coming to rest on the space beside him. The clock in his HuD anticipated the arrival of his collector, ticked down the second until the inevitable moment those measured steps would come to pause by his side, and he'd be adding another old-age artifact to the ever growing arrangement in a case at his quarters.

He was almost excited to see what they would bring this time. A bent fork? Part of a battery? The button to a stuffed animal eye? Maybe even a newspaper clipping from before the Collapse.

He was about to greet the Guardian, and his arm was already reaching out to receive. But Exo optics caught the worried look of the human woman across the table, and Cayde-6 realised he'd done it again. His arm faltered, and the friendly words died in his mouth.

"I uh." He had nothing to say, and he could feel the Titan behind him trying to ignore the confrontation. Ikora's eyes softened, but did not lose their concern.

"It's been four months, Cayde." Her voice held none of its cryptic formalities. Only careful approach. The Hunter turned back to his maps, avoiding her gaze now.

"I know. Sometimes it feels longer." Now was when he began to hope no one needed his charisma anytime soon. These instances always left him feeling burnt out.

"They were lost to the Darkness long before you met them." Cayde got the impression that Ikora was so used to telling others about things they didn't know that she didn't have it in her to talk about things they did without making it seem like they didn't. The Exo gave a huff of his vents.

"Yeah, I realise. I guess I'm just not as young as I used to be." A broad statement. One of those that drove the Warlock nuts. She thinned her lips and cast an appealing glance towards the as of yet mute Titan. Zavala let his discomfort known softly as he cleared his throat.

"Cayde, maybe it's time you saw the Speaker about this. It's... unusual. To say the least." The Hunter had to give it to the big guy; he sounded pretty sincere. Honey-like lights behind his oral plates flickered with his next sound of watery frustration.

"I'm fine, guys. I just need some time-" The stern voice of the only female at the table cut him off.

"Some time is far too much at this point, Cayde. You have a responsibility as a member of the Vanguard. The others look to you for strength; what will they get seeing you like this?"

He looked to her now, almost angry. Why? She was right, and he knew that. So why the animosity? But his disposition softened at her own anger. He was being selfish, these two genuinely worried for him.

With a sigh only tense enough to keep up the bravado, the Exo relented.

"I'll talk to him tomorrow," Cayde offered softly. This was enough to quell all immediate external fears, and they each eased back into their respective roles. But Cayde-6's mind wandered, lingering on the way the Guardian would watch him with gaze wide and unseeing, almost desperate, and he silently noted that maybe he should see the Speaker today. 


	4. When Taken by the Throat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Guardian's story of their experience walking beside the voices, and their descent into a realm only a few know from its effect on their own world.

In that place of animate death, where the walls and floor crawled at the presence of one's fingers and toes, and the air was filled with the static humming of a devouring power, you might find yourself among corridors and chambers that seem to shift and rearrange behind you. The door entered through would disappear, and the hall now behind you would lead only forward. As was that strange manipulation of a God. And here, a God's presence is very much felt.

Down beneath the paths illuminated by the sickly crystals, which never lacked the cloud of ever present moths, through the turns of the worm caves and the twists of the feeding grounds, there are the great doors flanked by the effigies of those we've come to know as the Hive Princes. Beyond these doors, the Hive King can be found, standing sentry to the revolutions of the Universe, casting his gaze in triple across the speckled blackness, across his Kingdom, or his Kingdom soon to be.

Do not go beyond those doors, Guardian, if you wish to come home in one piece. But if you do, hope to die in battle, and fight with the good times close to your mind so the end isn't quite as hard. 

This was told to me by a quiet man at the Tower, overlooking the landing bay, muttered through the noise of the ships coming and going and the tools used below the catwalks. His eyes were dull, his lips dry. He spoke with the hoarseness of someone waiting for the end, and his words felt as fulfilling as the chill to his skin and the brittleness to his hands. When I left him, he hadn't moved from his place against the railing. I doubted I'd see him ever again after the morning came. But it would have been nice.

I adhered to his word in the beginning. I watched my step, avoided those doors. Those tall, mumbling doors that reached far into the darkness of the roof. I kept my gaze from the blue fire that poured backwards. My Light I kept within my touch, protecting it from the leaching atmosphere that licked at my armour and teased at the cracks. I walked slow, and I gave the doors a healthy, safe berth. For weeks I resisted the whispers that brushed my thoughts. My will was strong, and my direction unswayable. No amount of darkness about my mind would muddy the bright purpose I stepped over bones with, through sheets of scent with, across floating stones and into vaulted cathedrals with.

I don't know when my focus slipped. I don't remember the first moment I stopped in my work and turned my head to listen to the things the doors mumbled. I don't remember the first words I made out of the foggy voices. What I do remember, however, is finding myself standing before them, glove pressed against the central crevice, quaking in fear of the things I was told. Shaking in revulsion of the things I was promised.

I lost something that day. Something that held the pieces of my thoughts together, that let them stand strong against the prodding nails and slithering tongues. It was small, this loss, but it was enough. Though he was beside me, we were no longer one.

My schedule was the first thing that deteriorated. I lost all sense of time. I knew not how long I'd studied this one fragment of this species' history. I could not recount how many times I'd turned over a single stalk of the wormspore. I forgot many times when my shift on the Dreadnaught was supposed to be handed to the next Warlock so I could rest. Days I went without contact from the Vanguard. Often, I believe, they would come through in bursts of static, worried, searching, fearing I had fallen to something sinister and powerful, something conjured by the Hive King himself, perhaps. I would banish these fears at each approach, with the short moments I had to confirm my healthy Light. They called me back to the Tower on each account. I would return the first few times. It wasn't long before even that much proved impossible.

Eris watched me when I passed her. The third eye knew, I could hear its whispering. Of what it knew, though, I could not discern. Only the poor blackened Guardian understood, as her teeth were bared against my presence, and a litany of muttered curses slipped over her lips.

You stink of the blood of the dead light, she would whisper as I passed.

Do not return from that wretched ship if you seek to empty the vessels of hope here, she would hiss when I turned my head.

I know the words you hear, Warlock, and I know your own eye aches to respond, she would cry in a low voice, even though now I left her to continue to stand below the stairs.

I thought to ignore her, prove I was untouched, unblemished. My will was resolute, I convinced myself again and again. My mind was my own. The words meant nothing to me. My scent...

I don't recall the first time I noticed it. Not my own scent, but that of those around me. It was hot, a burning smell. Like meat set out to broil in the hot sunlight of Mercury. Like the charr of the many dead by the weapons we wielded. It made the words shriek and chant, and the nails reached through me for the source. Eris' voice did not come to me then, and I rather wish it had. Perhaps it would have helped me remember myself in whole, though that isn't to say I forgot. No, forgetting was involved with subtraction, and this I was experiencing was involved with addition. I gained something horrid. Something festering. It set seed in my light and gorged itself.

The next time I stepped into the King's ship, I did not step back out again. My mind felt open to the whispers, and they let themselves in with a gleeful triumph. The walls and ground did not crawl from my fingers and toes, but met them with a greedy crackle and hiss. I could not see for the forms that lurked in the dark that had set itself in my eyes, and their teeth were left deep in my skin. What I did hear, what I did feel, what I did see was only one thing.

The doors.

They loomed over my head, the mumbles screeching into the night, calling for me. Beckoning. My name was said over and over, and my gloves found themselves again pressed into that crevice that split the doors apart. They remained shut to me, like a cruel joke that left me as the punchline. I believe I screamed in response to the calls, and dug into the rotting metal to get beyond the doors, and cried for forgiveness from the King whose voice I had yet to hear beneath the shrill words of the whispers. My episode was brief, and the next thing I remember is standing in a pit of blackness, the abyss clinging to my ankles with the gentleness of silk.

My mind was quiet. At long last, the voices had stopped. The teeth were gone from my skin, the nails left their purchase, the blood in my fingers was warm and sticky against my gloves. I was whole again, clear, collected, stable. My breath belonged in my lungs, and I'd already forgotten what it was like to smell the meal my fellow Guardians seemed to offer. Though I knew my Ghost was no longer with me, I didn't feel like it was such a great loss. After all, I was complete again. I could always connect with another. That was what I hoped, at least, as I turned slowly in the center of the blackened pool.

Saturn's light was pleasant here, letting the surrounding metal glow with a soft bronze, and offering my eyes a reprieve from the pitch of the corridors and nests. This room was silent, and any other class would have mistaken it for empty. But the God's presence was stronger than ever before.

Do you like the view, I heard him ask. His voice was thick, and rattled with the loose flesh of his mouth. It carried none of the harshness I'd come to expect from this kind, at least not yet. Though I could not see him, I knew him to be close.

It's lovely. I've never seen it so clearly. I replied directly, still turning, searching for a trace of his true form. He moved about the area not invisible, just not solid. I let my eyes wander.

Yes, a simple creature. Easily awed. Tell me, wielder of Light, why do you call my name? I didn't remember ever saying his name out loud, and he knew I thought of this. He silenced this immediately, and I felt the brush of disturbed air against my back. It was warm, and pressed into my armour with the darkness so deeply entwined with it. I stood in shadow then, and the whispers woke up, groggy, trading between one another over why they would be back.

I turned to face the Hive King, feeling only marginally safe behind my thick helmet and mantel. Something told me I was already dead beneath this beast, despite my present stance. He stared down at me with eyes so full of hate, so full of wrath and power and disgust that it felt only right to let my cheeks wet with tears. It was not a sign of weakness here, only acceptance, and the fingertips pressed into my scalp as they smelled the despair, hungry, ready to feed.

The Guardian in me fought against it anyway, and I felt myself draw weapon and flame before I could think on how to use them. One does not simply kill a God, after all, but that silly human desperation of preservation threw that understanding down while it summoned my wings and I was engulfed in the stars. The raw power burned the whispers and drove them away, and I rose to meet the King, let him taste my own passion.

Needless to say, it was short lived.

With a screech that rended the very light from my bones, I was pressed harshly into the blackness that was before beneath my feet, and from my chest and shoulder I added to the substance. Claws so large dug into my body, and a face so hideously furious snapped angrily at my helmet. I was screaming again, I think, and writhing against the abyss that crawled in through my wounds. The whispers chanted in excitement of this bounty soon to come to them, and I could feel the pounding of the occult mind preparing to feast.

How depraved, so eager to feed my hoard. I should consume you myself and not allow you the satisfaction.

I screamed and tore at that rotting metal, hoping to pull it from my form or cause it to pierce something vital and release me from the pain. His laugh was that of a million souls begging for the same release I sought, and his teeth came close to my blood. I was sure I was through; with broken light and without my Ghost. I was helpless and wounded and had outlived my usefulness to our cause. But some cruel twist of fate withdrew those jagged nails from my skin, letting the dark liquid of my life pool out, and left me to coil and writhe and cry in that blackened pool.

Something cold touched me within, and I fell to an agonised dreaming. It was bright and hot and the world I was brought to surged and roared and beat me to kneeling to crawling to coughing into the brilliantly shining ground. My hands pressed into the heat and my lungs burned with the stress of death and this world.

Slowly, it calmed, and I was laying in a white void that held me dearly to its bosom, like a mother quieting a restless child. It soothed my aching and breathed into my blood for me, while it spoke in a language I could not hear. My fingers found themselves around the hilt of a small, bladed weapon, and its edge was a part of the world around me. The words ordered my understanding, and the blade was placed delicately through the wounds in my chest and shoulder.

I woke up again under the bright light of our star, standing above these sounds of tools below the catwalk and surrounded by the coming and going of ships. My body is not my own, and neither are my movements, but for as long as I must stand here I will tell my story to any that will listen, and to any that can see me. I have watched you pass by this spot many times, unseeing to my chilled skin and the brittleness to my hands. But if you hear my words now, coming from dry and cracking lips, then it must be your turn to meet the doors, and I can look forward to the day you will take my place here. Standing against this rail, waiting for the end.

I can only hope you’ll find it.


End file.
